


In The Dark

by writinwaters (Anithene)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:32:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anithene/pseuds/writinwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the privacy of his tent, he lets himself consider that word, beautiful, admits that yes - she is beautiful; with her soft lips and vivid eyes, the lithe curve of her hips, the slope of her neck, beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Dark

The night is quiet outside his tent. He can hear the rustle of the underbrush as the wind passes through it, the soft, sleepy murmur of the guards as they make their rounds, broken only by the pop of a log being thrown into the fire. That same firelight passes through the canvas of his tent as orange darkened with red, lends his skin a warmer palette.

Solas lies with one arm behind his head, his other hand resting, still, against his bare stomach. Nights in the Hinterlands are warm this time of year, not quite spring but edging closer to summer, with its tender seedlings shouldering up through soil, the wildlife waking once again.

The day was no less exhausting. They'd barely survived being mauled to death by bears, cultists, scavengers looking for easy targets, unaware of the identities of whom they attacked. Even now, as he lies in his tent, Solas can't decide whether it was skill or luck which saw them all through unscathed; a few scrapes and bruises were what he has to show for the day's toils.

His thoughts wander to The Herald - no, her name is Lavellan, she is not to be whittled down to a mark or a religious symbol for desperate peasants, for scared nobility. Lavellan. She has approached him several times in Haven, curious and bright, prickly when his words ventured too close to her upbringing. Solas doesn't begrudge her that.

He inhales deeply through his nose, eyes closing, thoughts venturing further, his fingers twitching against his stomach. If there is any among them worthy of the people's praises, it is Lavellan, with her kind heart and ironclad spirit, using what fame she's acquired for the gain of others. Bright. Curious. Beautiful.

Solas opens his eyes at that, startled by his own train of thought. In the privacy of his tent, he lets himself consider that word, beautiful, admits that yes - she is beautiful; with her soft lips and vivid eyes, the lithe curve of her hips, the slope of her neck, beautiful.

The firelight through his tent, which moments ago had been soothing, is suddenly too hot, too close, and Solas finds himself shifting uncomfortably against his bedroll. He closes his eyes, breathes in through his mouth and out his nose. His mind roves to other things, shifting through them as one turns the pages of a book. They snag as the image of her comes back to the forefront of his mind's eye.

Ridiculous, he thinks to himself, scowling in the dark. It's not like him to be besotted by a pretty face, to linger as he does on the thought of round hips and smooth thighs. There is work to be done, more important things for him to ponder on.

And yet...

It’s been so long, Ages, in fact, since he has last felt the touch of another, the slick slide of sweaty bodies in the dark, of hands tripping down his bare back. Ages since a simple kiss. Ages.

His idle hand has wandered down, fingers resting, just so, on the laces of his trousers. He rubs his palm, ever so lightly, against himself, lurching when the motion drags the fabric up across his cock, flaccid as it is. He does it again, pressing harder, catching and strangling the moan which threatens to spill past his open mouth.

In his mind, he replaces the image of his hand with hers, smaller, with her long fingers and narrow palm. They would be calloused...

The sound he makes is more a pant than a hiss as he draws it through his parted lips. What would she do, knowing he lies here, a few steps away, fantasizing about her hand on him, rubbing through his clothing?

Would she approve? Would she look upon him with contempt? Would she return his desires?

No, he could make no presumptions as to her desires, what she would or would not do for him, to him. His hand trembles where it rests, fingers twitching, as he runs the palm of his other hand harshly down his face. For a few moments he stays like that, thumb and forefinger pressed to his closed eyelids.

It has been ages.

Solas makes a frustrated noise, and, with clumsy fingers, rends the laces of his breeches loose, shoving the hem of it down past his hips. His cock, nearly erect, feels hot against the night air as its freed.

He hasn’t the luxury of exploring himself once again, no time for soft touches, so he wraps one hand around himself and simply pulls. That first sensation, the crash of pleasure against the bones of his spine, rocks his hips upward into a thrust. His lungs expand with air as he gasps, a small, far-away part of his mind hoping no one had heard, but the one filled with her image damns it to the void, and he tugs again.

The second wave is no lesser than the first. His heart begins to beat loudly in his eardrums, the firelight outside his tent too warm for comfort, even as he jerks the rest of his breeches down and away. The hem of one is tangled around one ankle, but he has little care for it, only for the pleasure as his hand begins to move in firmer, shorter strokes.

Solas watches with fascination at the sight of his foreskin being tugged up and down by his own hand, the knuckles almost white, his palm a dry drag against the skin. His fingertips are calloused. Like hers.

He has to bite his lip to soften the moan which that image evokes, of her hand around his cock, of her thumb dipping into the slit, of her fingertips swirling around the flushed, sensitive head. In his mind, she’s kneeling between his spread knees, kissing his throat - he drags the fingers of his free hand over the spot he imagines - clothed where he is bare, though he can see the hardness of her nipples through her tunic...

He imagines taking one between his teeth and tugging it, the rub of the fabric surely exquisite against her skin, as the hand currently clutching the back of his own neck travels down her side. Her ass would be firm beneath his palm, soft enough to get a good grip, to sink his fingernails into.

Solas moans aloud, throwing his head back, squeezing his cock on each upward stroke. She would know just the right pressure, just the right speed to keep him on the edge for whole minutes, dragging the sensation out of him in increments. She would be eager to give him pleasure as he would be to return it.

His face is burning, his chest feels heavy, his thighs begin to tremble where they lay spread against the bedroll. He’s so close. Close.

With a grunt he lurches his hand away to fist it against his thigh. Sweat drips down his nose, along the sharp angle of his cheekbones. He feels it pooled in the divot of his navel, so hot though the air is cool. He’s in no hurry to end this, no matter how much his body aches for it. How sensitive his skin is, how the mere imaginings of a woman has made him hard and throbbing.

Solas relaxes back into the bedding, steadying his breath.

When he imagines her again, she’s kissing her way down his stomach, taking extra care to avoid brushing her breasts against him. They would be soft and heavy in his palms. She licks the line of his hipbone. She sucks that soft spot on the inside of his thigh. She runs her fingers along the back of his knee.

Would she simply draw him into her mouth, or would she take her time with that, too, as she does with most things?

She would tease him. He knows she would, which coaxes a growl against his teeth - yes, she would tease him, run the very tip of her warm tongue up the line of his cock, swiping just past the head, before starting at the root again. Her fingers would touch, not cup, the weight of his balls to further his pleasure, offering the briefest hope of reprieve. She would tease him until he was begging for more significant attentions.

He would. He would beg for her.

Solas crushes his palm against his mouth to muffle himself, ears bright red, eyes screwed shut. He imagines the fist he makes over the head of his cock to be her mouth, so warm, his thumb as her tongue rolling against the underside. Now, the pleasure not so much crashes but roars in his veins, singing in his bones, burning his flesh.

His hips are jerking frantically into the pump of his own hand, slickened with the precum he’s gathered from the tip. Not as wet as her mouth would be around him. Her mouth sucking him, so good, better than anything he’s ever had, her mouth sucking him until she’d be making obscenely wet sounds as she did, until she could slide him down her throat and swallow -

The cry he makes is loud even against his hand, as the orgasm rips him apart from his head to his toes, until he’s spending himself on the sweaty skin of his stomach and thighs in thick ribbons. Solas pumps himself a few more times, cock twitching, until the feeling becomes too much and he has to pull away.

He opens his eyes. Outside his tent, there’s still the murmur of guards, the sound of nocturnal creatures in the dark. It appears, mercifully, that either no one has heard him or doesn’t care to investigate. His head feels light, his limbs sluggish, as if he’s been carrying a full suit of armor the entire day, but it’s pleasant, warm, feels better than he has in weeks.

He wipes himself off with a cloth from his pack, pulls his trousers back up. He settles heavily against his bedroll, damp with his own sweat. He closes his eyes. He sleeps.


End file.
